Becca Rothfeld is a dynamo. I had not come across her before picking up All Things Are Too Small and was unprepared for the book’s extraordinary clout and reach. She is an American journalist (a contributor to the New Yorker and the New York Times and a critic on the Washington Post), a philosopher, polemicist and a wit. She challenges, in this bracing, original and intellectually poised collection of essays, many of our unquestioning modern assumptions and, most persuasively, takes aim at the promotion of minimalism as an ideal for our living spaces, novels and ourselves.
Nothing, in Rothfeld’s view, succeeds like excess and she packs so much into her opening essay about why it is OK to want more (the most extravagant of Oliver Twists) that you feel richly fed before even turning the first page. She includes the 13th-century Dutch mystic Hadewijch of Brabant (from whom her title is taken), Herman Melville’s Moby-Dick, the critic James Wood and even makes time to sympathise with a random man sighted in a restaurant who wolfed down three dishes of pasta in a row, commenting that he wouldn’t have had to have third helpings “if any plate available were big enough”.
Inevitably, Rothfeld, revelling in plurality, does not neglect to launch a scornful attack on an obvious target: tidying guru Marie Kondo. She claims to be nonplussed by Kondo’s notorious method, which she describes as “touching items to determine whether they ‘spark joy’, then summarily tossing anything that induces more complex emotions, or, God forbid, thought”. To be thought-free is something of which Rothfeld herself is incapable. She rails against blank-slateism. She notes that “the mechanism by which tossing old T-shirts is supposed to effect rebirth remains hazy”. She broods about whether “stuffing the local landfill is sufficient to effect widespread egalitarian overhaul”. And there is – naturally – more. She convincingly laments the decluttering of contemporary literature, which she believes has produced many self-involved, overpruned and fragmented novels. She includes a respectful yet highly critical and underwhelmed essay on Sally Rooney and her “politically anodyne” work.
I enjoy trying to declutter and recognise the value of mindfulness (a decluttering, with any luck, of the mind) but this did not spoil my delight at her refreshingly unconvinced essay on the subject. She describes her “virtuous boredom” trying to meditate and absolute lack of interest in what her own breath is doing. Above all, she denounces the way that meditation, as she sees it, encourages a defeatist passivity. In a fiercely unequal world, she argues, trying to persuade people to accept unfair circumstances is unacceptable. Mindfulness “falsely assumes that our dissatisfaction is always attributable to mental mismanagement, never to circumstances of genuine injustice”.
Elsewhere, Rothfeld writes where devils fear to tread – about sex, beauty and desire and about consumption and consummation. There is a brilliant and startling essay, The Flesh, It Makes You Crazy, which includes a description of the lust she feels for her husband. I kept wondering how he might feel about this tribute (imagining him, sitting in armchair, hands over eyes). The obvious question she gives rise to is: can you have – or be – too much of a good thing? She writes scaldingly about “new puritan” writers Christine Emba and Louise Perry, and emphasises that the erotic is “its own wild creature, for which there is (and can be) no established idiom”. She exposes the stifling conservatism of Emba and Perry and the tyranny to which their prudish conclusions lead.
In the acknowledgments, Rothfeld thanks her editor for “trusting me to write at ecstatic length”. And it is part of her scintillating achievement, in this book of appetite, to make one vow never again to use the phrase “less is more” under any circumstances. And yet, having said that, it is also the case – whisper it – that Rothfeld, who writes with such zest, could have got away with painlessly trimming one or two of these essays. And this is because, as a brilliant and decisive iconoclast, she also has the potential to be precisely what she would like to avoid: a compendious miniaturist.
• All Things Are Too Small: Essays in Praise of Excess by Becca Rothfeld is published by Little, Brown (£20). To support the Guardian and Observer order your copy at guardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply
